The Trap

Sundown in Zion

Chapter forty-eight

 

            Nelson and Sheriff Love sat in the front seat of the sheriff’s car waiting. In back, Sherlock, a German Shepherd, lay curled on the seat, his head raised and cocked in anticipation. “This gripes my ass,” the sheriff said, “and to think I used to get paid to do this four hours or more at a time.”

            Nelson said, “You mean the waiting? I’ve done some of that myself.”

            “I’ll bet,” the sheriff said. “It’s one thing to wait so you can do harm to someone. It’s another thing to wait while there may be someone out there waiting to do harm to you. Ain’t that what they call a ‘matter of perspective’ or something like that?”

            “It is.” Nelson said. “They used to tell us to ‘get comfortable with being uncomfortable.’ They didn’t mention anything about getting comfortable with being scared.”

            “Lots of things to be scared of in this world,” he said. “I just hope we can figure out a way to scare the Soul Warriors. Right, Sherlock?” The dog stood and sniffed the air. “No drugs in here, boy,” the sheriff said. “Nothing to be excited about.” He turned to Nelson. “Did I ever tell you about the scary birds we had in southeast Asia?”

            “The what?”

            “They were lizards, really, but we all called them birds because of the sound they made out in the jungle. Scare the hell out of you the first time you heard them, they would.”

            “What? The sound of a lizard would scare a marine?”

            “Fuck you."

            “What?”

            “Fuck you”

            “I didn’t mean …”

            “Fuck you,”

            “What did I do?”

            “Not do. Fuck you.”

            “Did I offend you?”

            “No, that’s the sound the lizard made in the darkest time of night. I guess when he was sounding off for some lizard nookie, he’d say, plain as could be, ‘Fuck you.’ It would come right out of the jungle like the NVA was there. ‘Fuck you,’ and if you don’t think that would scare the hell out of some young jarhead slick, just a few months out of boot camp at three o’clock in the morning on a pitch black night, you never stood watch in the jungle.”

“I …,” Nelson began as the sheriff’s radio crackled.

            “Big Daddy,” Deputy Cassidy’s voice said.

            “Go ahead, Sonny Boy,” the sheriff said into his handset.

            “First target passed. Second target stopped.”

            “On my way,” the sheriff said. “Give me one minute.”

            “Roger, out,” the voice said.

            The sheriff said nothing, but started his car and eased onto the highway. As soon as they were in motion, he lowered the two rear windows. “How about some fresh air, Sherlock?” he said to the dog in back. The dog moved to the right window and stuck his head through the window. “That’s it,” the sheriff said. “Good boy. Take some good deep breaths.” He drove a little below the speed limit, in no hurry.

            The car rounded a curve and the men saw, just beyond the intersection of a county road and the highway, flashing lights from a patrol car and an oversized delivery truck from “Dan’s Almost Free Things.” Both were parked on the side of the highway. Deputy Cassidy stood with another man beside his patrol car. The deputy was writing on a pad. The other man was tall and sported a week-old growth of beard. He wore a green work uniform. Oily hair extended from a baseball cap advertising the store. He looked back toward the sheriff’s car, which was now parked behind them. Nelson and the sheriff emerged from their car and the man recognized the sheriff immediately. He froze.

            “Kilo,” the sheriff said as they approached. “Kilo Kesterson. I thought you were still in Tucker Maximum.” The man remained stiff.

            After a few seconds, he relaxed and smiled. “Out on parole, Sheriff,” he said. “for good behavior. I been working for Mr. Dilahunity for three months and this is the first time I’ve even been pulled over and I don’t hardly know what for. I was trying to drive as careful as I could cause you know I don’t belong back at Tucker Max. How’s your family been? You’ve lost some weight, haven’t you?”

            “You ain’t about to go into “con-mode” on me now are you Kilo?” The Sheriff asked. He turned to Deputy Cassidy. “What’s this old boy done now?’

            “Failure to stop at the four-way,” Cassidy said. “You told us to get a little stricter about that since the last wreck.”

            “I did indeed,” the sheriff said. “And Kilo here was the first?”

            “No,” Cassidy said. “One came through like a bat out of hell a few minutes before him, but you don’t want us in high-speed pursuits”

            “Good job,” the sheriff said. “I spect you gonna let Kilo off with a warning, ain’t you? He’s a good old boy when he ain’t high on something or other.”

            “Yes sir,” Cassidy said, “just thought I’d make an example and he’ll get the word out. What are ya’ll up to?”

            “Just out takin’ Sherlock for some air. He’s been cooped up and gets nervous if I don’t take him for a ride ever now and …”

He stopped when the dog barked and bounded through the window of Sheriff Loves’ car. Hitting the ground, he went straight to Kilo Kesterson, sniffed his pants, and went into response mode. Before anyone could move, he left the man and bounded to the rear of the delivery truck, He reared onto its bumper, sniffed the doors, and became more agitated. Like a trapped person, he darted back and forth between man and truck until the sheriff gave him a command to cease. Sherlock obeyed and the sheriff walked to the man.

            “Kilo,” he said. “Just what in the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

            He turned to talk to Nelson but Nelson had taken off running past the delivery truck. Another man, a passenger in the truck who had gone unnoticed, had slide from the passenger side and was fleeing the scene. He hadn’t covered 50 yards before Nelson caught him. It only took a hand on the collar to end the escape attempt. Nelson walked him back to the sheriff without saying a word.

            “Well ain’t this a godammed class reunion,” the sheriff said, “a real gathering of old pals.” He moved the man to where he stood beside Ken. “Boys,” he said. “I want you to meet Jitters McDaniels, arguably the stupidest car stealer our county ever apprehended. He stole the ugliest purple car you’ve ever seen, drove straight to a liquor store, parked it with the license plate facing the highway, and went inside. I was personally waiting for him when he came out with a six-pack of Old Milwaukee.” He nodded. “What say, Jitters?” He turned to Nelson, “He that slow, or you that fast? Don’t say a word. I know the answer.”

            Nelson didn’t answer, for he was bent forward holding his side. His face had drained and he motioned for the sheriff to give him a second. Slowly, he raised himself erect and nodded. “Just a little remnant,” he said. “I’m fine now.”

            “Fine hell,” the sheriff said. “You take my car back to the office and wait there. Tell Mrs. Matterson to feed my dog and put him in his pen. Me and Hopalong will let these fellers explain why they almost sent Sherlock into cardiac arrest. I’m sure they’ll do a good job and I’ll be back in an hour or so and they’ll be on their way to Mr. Dilahunty’s store. He winked.

            The sheriff didn’t come back that afternoon, so Nelson headed to his office first thing the next morning. He was having coffee with Mrs. Matterson when Sheriff Love burst into the area and motioned Nelson into his office. “Sorry I didn’t call. It was a long day.”

            Once inside, the sheriff collapsed behind his desk and motioned for Nelson to sit. “Long version or short version?” he said.

            “Whichever you have time for,” Nelson said. “What did you find in the truck?”

            “Enough methamphetamine to build your Navy a new aircraft carrier if you sold the goods at market value.”

            “Impounded?”

            “The truck or the goods?”

            Nelson cocked his head.

            “I brought the state boys in” the sheriff said, “to help with a case that may be a little big for us. They confiscated the dope and two of their men are driving the truck on to where it was headed.”

            “Not to Dilahunty’s?”

            “No, to this resort town in the north part of the state which is sort of a receiving and distribution center. They are after bigger fish.”

            “How did they know the destination?”

            “Well,” said the sheriff, “after I reminded Kilo and Jitters who they would be auctioned off to back at the old cell block, they sang sweeter than Simon and Garfunkel.”

            “So the state is taking over?”

            “Just the main distribution. I only asked two things, well three actually.”

            “And they were?”

            “For us to take down the hunting club and the Soul Warriors, the associated search warrant, and a commendation for old Sherlock.”

            “They agreed?”

            “Only if they could have a couple of their guys involved along with the feds. They were insistent about the feds for some reason. I didn’t ask.”

            Nelson said nothing.

            “Damn,” said the sheriff. “Thank goodness for talkative losers.”

            “What next?” Nelson asked.

            “You tell me. I want to get inside before they get wise or get word and we raid an empty tomb. Law enforcement around here is a leaky vessel and the Weasel is bound to get word that something is up. Or old “Almost Free” Dan Dilahunty may crawl off his teenaged bride long enough to start missing his truck.”

            “That reminds me,” Nelson said.

            The sheriff raised his hand. “You don’t have to tell me,” the sheriff said. “The young Mrs. Dilahunty. She called me while I was at the state yesterday. You really pissed her off. Hell hath no fury like a two-bit bitch who feels ignored.”

            “What did you tell her?”

            “What the lizards said in Vietnam,” or something close to that.

            “That’s the same thing I told her,” Nelson said, “except I didn’t have to say it.”

            Someone knocked on the door three distinct times.

            “Enter,” the sheriff said.

            The door opened and Mrs. Matterson peeked past the opening. “Someone from the bank needs to see you for just a second,” she said.

            “Send him in.”

            “It’s a she.” The door swung in and Morgan Fowler walked in carrying a thin file folder. She stopped when she saw Nelson and she blanched visibly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

            “Meet my new deputy Gideon Nelson,” the sheriff said. “This is Mrs. Moneybags from the bank.” He gestured toward her.

            “I know Mr. Nelson,” she said. She nodded and said, “How do you do?”

            “Fine,” Nelson said, looking as if he had never met her. She was immaculately dressed in a business suit that complimented her full figure and ample legs. Her hair was trimmed shorter in a professional style that accented her oval face. She smiled and her face seemed to light the room. Sheriff Love noticed and smiled back. “Am I overdrawn again?”

            Morgan laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “I just need to get your signature on this receipt for some grant funds so we can expedite the processing.”

            “Good old ‘Uncle Sugar.’ Will you thank him for me?” The sheriff took the file she offered and signed. Handing it back, he said, “I hear nothing but good things about the job you’re doing over there.”

            “Thank you,” she said. “We’re trying hard to change some of the old practices.” Her face moved slightly toward Nelson.

            “Be sure to call me first if you happen to get robbed,” the sheriff said.

            Morgan laughed and didn’t reply. Turning to Nelson, she said, “It was nice to see you again.” With that, she twirled about and was gone. Only her scent remained.

            Sheriff Love didn’t speak for a minute. He gathered his thoughts and looked at Nelson. “There was enough electricity in this room just now to power a skyscraper. I hope you noticed.”

            Nelson said nothing for a few seconds, then, “I want to go in first.”

            “I figured as much,” the sheriff said. “You let me nab Kilo and Jitters. Now you figure it’s your turn.”

            “Pretty much,” said Nelson. “By the way, how does a man get a name like ‘Kilo’ anyway?”

            “Funny you should ask.” the sheriff said, I asked him the same thing once. It’s his real name, you know, on this birth certificate and all. What he said was, ‘My mother was a crack-whore and my daddy was a drug pusher. What would you expect?’ Now, let’s get back to taking down the Soul Warriors. How you gonna do it?”

Evasion

 

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

            Nelson woke the next morning to faint sounds from the kitchen. He eased from bed and opened his bedroom door two inches and listened. Charlie and Angela were engaging in a spirited conversion. He smiled and listened.

            “So there I was,” Angela said, “eighteen and ready for anything. Maureen and I had worn our short little skirts and loose blouses—we called them our easy-access outfits—and we were like a couple of A-10 Thunderbolts, all warmed up on the runway with our engines throbbing and ready for action. Look out world, here we come.”

            Nelson eased the door closed and went into his bathroom. He showered quickly, then dressed in jeans, a black pullover shirt and hiking shoes. He picked up a spare shoe from inside his closet and held it aloft. Easing to the door again, he opened it a crack. Angela was still talking, more animated now. Nelson listened.

            “So I looked again,” she said. “Oh my god … that thing was a big around as a tomato-juice can and long as a stick of salami.” She stopped, “You believe me, don’t you?”

            Nelson heard Charlie make a muffled reply.

            “Then stop laughing, goddamit,” Angela said. Charlie said something and Angela said, “What the hell do you think I did? I jerked my panties up and went hopping out of there, pulling up my easy-access skirt best I could with one hand and holding my shoes in the other. I banged on the other door and, luckily, Maureen and her old goot hadn’t been as far along as we were, so she ran out to where I was and we went into escape and evasion-mode.” She stopped and said. “And if you laugh one more time, I’m going to bitch-slap you into the next county. She laughed, herself.

            Nelson put a hand to his mouth. Charlie said something Nelson couldn’t understand, and Angela said, “He didn’t do nothing at first, just stood there with his tongue and his whatever both hanging out. Then he ran to the door and stood there like an old buzzard yelling, ‘Baby, come back. Come back baby.’ He was still standing there, buck-assed naked, when we backed the car down toward the lake. And you know what he did just before we swung around.? He took that thing in his hand and started waving it at us. The son of a bitch was crazy.”

            “Did you learn anything from it?” Nelson could hear Charlie now.

            “I learned to leave old men alone,” Angela said. “Wrinkled-up trouble is what they are. Those fuckers had spent a couple hundred bucks apiece on us that night, meals, drinks, shows, Viagra, and all. I’ve always suspected they would have spent a thousand more apiece to get what they wanted.” She stopped. “Old men, … shit,” she said. “Young girls make them crazy as loons, and they’ve had way too long for their imaginations and, uh, other things to mature, if you know what I mean. I’ll stick to the young ones like you. You haven’t enough sense to buy a piece of ass, so you have to charm your way into it.” There followed a short silence. “You do know how to charm your way into it, don’t you? And no, you don’t just put your lips together and blow.”

            With that, Nelson dropped the spare shoe on the floor and cursed with a vengeance. The then opened the door and emerged in the hallway with good deal of racket. He made a show of pretending surprise when he saw them. “Hello,” he said, mildly.

            “Hey sailor,” Angela said. “You still sleeping alone?”

            “Looks that way.”

            “Sleep well? And don’t say ‘Sound as a whore on Sunday.’ That Navy crap can be sexist.”

            “I slept,” Nelson said. “What’s up?”

            “Angela brought you something on her way to a meeting with the feds,” Charlie said.

            “A present?” Nelson said.

            “And if anyone finds out about it, I had an extra copy for Agent Benson’s personal use and you stole it from my briefcase. Agreed?”

            “Agreed,” Nelson said.

            “Have some coffee and let’s talk,” Angela said. “I’ll tell you what I know about it.”

            Charlie fixed Nelson some breakfast while he and Angela talked. Afterwards, Nelson left Little Rock and drove east. Before reaching Armistead, he stopped at Barker’s. Elvis was resting from the morning rush, and was reading a newspaper. It was The Armistead Announcer, and the front page was visible. A glaring headline read, “Clues expand in search for killers.”

            “Big news?” Nelson asked, sitting himself across from Elvis.

            “Ace reporter says the inquiry into the mysterious deaths of two young girls includes possible leads in Little Rock,” Elvis said. “Ain’t that something?”

            Nelson started to say something but stood instead. He walked to a nearby stand where he poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to his seat. “How’ your brother?” he said. “The one with the FBI in Washington.”

            “The only one I have,” Elvis said. “Funny you should ask, I talked to him just last night.”

            “And.”

            “He’s doing fine,” Elvis said. “Seems like some folks in Little Rock are getting nervous about all the crazy rumors going around.”

            “Rumors?”

            “About gangs in Little Rock dumping bodies out in white America.”

            “Imagine that,” Nelson said.

            “Yeah,” Elvis said. “Imagine that.”

            An hour later, Nelson was in Sheriff Love’s office and the two were studying photographs spread out on the Sheriff’s desk.”

            “This is some “righteous shit” as my jarhead buddies used to say. How do they do this? All we can get is the tops of buildings.”

            “Miracles of modern technology,” Nelson said. “And you haven’t seen them and know nothing about them.”

            “Gotcha,” the Sheriff said. “Now tell me something. Why do buildings in a hunting club need concrete block walls? It ain’t like the deer are going to counterattack.”

            Nelson stroked his chin. “Maybe they are keeping something valuable there.”

            “Redneck cocaine?”

            “Don’t know,” Nelson said. “But these indicate that there is a lot more going on there than fellowship.” He pointed at the photographs. “Too bad we can’t officially use these. Would they be enough to obtain a search warrant?”

            “Probably not,” the Sheriff said, “or the Feds would already have one.” He leaned back his desk. “We may not have time left to get a search warrant.”

            Nelson didn’t respond. He started to gather the photos. He placed them back in their envelope and gestured toward the locker where the Sheriff kept badges and things. Sheriff Love nodded. “We may have worked our way into a jam,” he said. “Right now, we must have the Soul watchmacallits confused. On the one hand, they think we are off chasing the gang members in Little Rock, although that’s probably not what they call them.”

            Nelson leaned back and listened. “On the other hand,” the sheriff said, “They know we’ve been fucking with them. I imagine the Police Chief has told everyone in Connorville that I’ve asked him to be on the lookout for something big.”

            “So what now?”

            “Now, we let them make a mistake. In fact, we help them make a mistake.” He made a note with a pencil on a yellow legal pad and tapped the pencil against his desk several times. He looked at Nelson and sighed. “I feel though, that I’m taking you away from your intended purpose for being here in the first place.”

            Nelson looked puzzled. “Oh?”

            “Finding your young girl’s murderer. I’m about to split our forces, so to speak, and go on a search and destroy mission against what may be a sizable drug operation.”

            Nelson stood walked to the wall of the office on the far left of Sheriff Love. He looked through a window that opened onto the town square. It was a pleasant day and the sheriff had raised the blinds. He studied the bustle of activity outside for a moment and turned to Sheriff Love. “Do you know what I did in the Navy?” he asked.

            “Everyone in Armistead County knows what you were trained to do in the Navy,” he said. “The big mystery is what the fuck you did. Most of the yahoos that would love to know probably don’t really want to.”

            Nelson laughed. “It’s not that mysterious,” he said. “First, I followed orders, that’s all.”

            “And things worked out?”

            “If the orders were good.”

            “And if they weren’t?”          

            “Then our team had to start making shit up.”

            “That was bad?”

            “No, that was usually good, for we were well-trained to make shit up. You know that American military warriors are known for that, and the advantage it gives them.”

            “And?”

            “We sort of enjoyed it, and most of the time the shit we made up matched what the higher-ups wanted all along. They just didn’t know it. I’ve found that things are often connected in ways we never expected. Take that old oak tree there.” He pointed to large tree in the town outside the window.”

            “A tree?”

            “One of the most important functions it performs is in creating the oxygen we breath.”

            “So I’ve read.”

            “But the first inhabitants of the land around here felt certain, I’ll bet, that trees were put here to provide shade in the summer and firewood in the winter.”

            “Your point?”

            Nelson turned away from the window toward the sheriff. “Let’s make up some shit. You never know where it might lead. I’m coming to the belief that everything that happens in this county is connected to everything else that happens.”

            The two stood silent for more than a minute, Nelson watching the tree and the sheriff watching the far wall with his head cocked in thought. He moved it with a slight jerk and spun his chair around so he faced Nelson. Nelson turned and looked at the sheriff, who broke the silence

            “You may not believe it,” he said, “but my first job in this county wasn’t with the Sheriff’s Department.”

            “Oh?”

            “No,” I was a game warden for a while. You ever deer hunt?”

            “Not seriously.”

            “Then you’ve never poached deer?”

            “Not that I recall.”

            “There’s a trick they pull when they want to get an illegal deer out of the woods and into a safe place.”

            “Let me guess. They don’t just drive it out?”

            “Kinda sorta. But first they send out a ‘nervous-nelly decoy’ to fool any law that might be watching. It would usually be the dumbest sumbitch in the group, and that’s saying a lot. He would sail out of the woods with a tarp visible that was hiding something and he would be looking every which a way like the hounds of hell might be after him.”

            “A decoy, no doubt.”

            “Correct. Then the truck with one or more illegal carcasses would drive out slow and easy like it was going to Sunday school.”

           Nelson looked confused. “You thought we were talking about crime,” Sheriff Love said. “Didn’t you?” Before Nelson could answer, the sheriff continued, “Then you thought we were talking about methods of solving crimes. Right? Then we shifted into deer hunting.”

            Nelson nodded. “All three,” the sheriff said. “We’re talking about all three. So sit back my nautical friend and let me ‘splain’ this all to you.”

            “I trust,” Nelson said, “that you may, in the process, tell me how it all may apply to this place.” He tapped a forefinger on one of the photographs.

            “Patience, young deputy.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Do you know that place on the old highway where they store the materials for road repair?”

            Nelson nodded.

            “Then you know that it is at the intersection of the road leading out from this so-called ‘hunting club’ I would imagine.”

            Nelson nodded again.

            “What you don’t know, since you haven’t been an officer of the law in this department long, is that is a favorite resting place for our deputies when there isn’t much major malfeasance going on.”

            Nelson said nothing.

            “What would you think if I told you the deputies observe vehicles leaving from the hunting club playing the ‘deer hunting trick’ right in front of our deputies? We don’t act, since it isn’t any of our business.”

            Nelson leaned forward and said, “That they are transporting illegal deer?”

            “In season, yes,” the sheriff said. “But the season ended a few months back.”

“And?”

“And they are still doing it about once a week or so. In fact, tomorrow is the usual day.”

e“They do it Even though there shouldn’t be any deer to transport?’

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t I ever tell you that Armistead County rednecks are not what you would call real smart?

“No, but I’ve sorta figured that out on my own.”

“Then you might figure that they are up to something when they pull a deer season ploy when it ain’t deer season?”

“Maybe they are killing them out of season?”

“Did I mention that out Game Warden lives in Connerville? He could care less.”

“So what can we do? Is stopping deer poaching poaching part of our mission?”

“No, but doing a ‘California Roll’ through one of our four-way stops is. We need to crack down on that, wouldn’t you say?”

“If you say so.”

"I say let's go screw with some folks."

Secrets

 It was said once, on a hill in Judea, “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 6:1 NIV) Yep, that would have been the Galilean, and the sermon was on a mount somewhere, it is recorded.

 I knew a man once who still reminds me of that sermon. He owned a women’s shop in one of our state’s cities of around 10,000 population. I won’t mention his name out of respect, but I think of him often. I liked him, and I think you would have too. He volunteered for his community, helped the poor, and never uttered oaths or disparaging words. Some even euphemistically called him “a saint.” At his funeral service, the priest opened with, “The gates of Heaven opened wide this week” and not a soul in the audience would have disagreed.

 When they read his will, they found that he had bequeathed his shop to two women who had worked for him for years. He and his wife had no children. When he died, a niece and nephew flew in from Tennessee after the funeral and settled his estate, a substantial one. A friend on fixed income offered to place flowers on the grave from time to time if the kinfolks would help with the cost. They declined.

 He died some 40 years ago, but his goodness has never quit guiding me though I readily admit to falling short. What I remember was that he never talked about the good things he did. And, he never once mentioned religion other than once telling me the Catholic ladies in town were having a spaghetti supper and we should maybe go.

 Not long before he died, we talked about his wife, who passed first. I was surprised to learn that she wasn’t Catholic, but a Methodist. Each Sunday, they both dressed and went separate ways, meeting back together for lunch. When I expressed surprise, he simply said, “We never talked about it.”

 As I said, his goodness still resonates with me, not as often as I would wish, but often enough that I think it makes a difference. And that’s why that sermon of so long ago still resonates.

Persecution

 Among other things turned topsy-turvy these days is the message of the eighth blessing pronounced by the Galilean in his most famous sermon as reported by the Gospel writer Matthew. Looking over a group of people who very well might be persecuted for following him, he said,

 “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:10 NIV)

 He was talking to a group of people who very well might have been persecuted for practicing his particular brand of righteousness. Certainly, followers within a century or so would know persecution when they became sources of entertainment for coliseum crowds. Yes, even today in some third-world countries, we hear of followers being murdered or tortured.

It has gotten to where in America, though, a self-proclaimed follower of the Galilean claims persecution when receiving a card in the mail that says, “Happy Holidays,” instead of “Merry Christmas.” That is hardly a measurable equivalent to being fed to hungry lions before a crowd.

Maybe we should work on our definition of righteousness. The Galilean mentioned it twice in his pronouncement of blessings. He first said for us to hunger and thirst for it. (Matthew 5:6) Then, as stated, he intimated that we might be persecuted for doing so. Evidently, he thought highly of it.

What is righteousness? Gosh. Who knows? Some self-proclaimed followers say it is the accumulation of money. There aren’t many things in more direct contradiction to the Galilean’s recorded words.

Some self-proclaimed followers say it consists of being born with the right physiological structure, that is to say one exactly like theirs. A person can sell a lot of chicken sandwiches by preaching that.

Some self-proclaimed followers say it consists of following the proper political candidate, even one who violates most of the strictures of our famous sermon each day before lunch. Of course, that candidate must hate the same people that the self-proclaimed follower does.

Some self-proclaimed followers simply say, “It is what it is. Trust us.” If the Galilean had listed naked honesty as a beatitude, that would tend to work, particularly if one’s father had been a famous follower.

Probably, if we read the sermon carefully, we will know what it is, at least what the speaker meant by it. Then we might come to realize that, in our modern country, the self-proclaimed followers of the Galilean are performing the bulk of the persecutions.

Yes, verily I say, our world is topsy-turvy right now.

Trials

 Sundown in zion

CHAPTER FORTY-six

             First thing next morning, Nelson phoned the Stubblefields and asked to come over. Thirty minutes later, he sat in Eli’s shop drinking coffee with Eli and enjoying some French toast Martha had prepared. Eli listened to the details of Bonnie Sue Anderson’s murder that Nelson was at liberty to relate. When he had finished silence invaded the room.

            “So, her death is apparently related to Abbey’s,” said after a long wait. His face showed no emotion.

            “There’s no doubt in my mind,” said Nelson. “I’m also more and more convinced that both are related to the disappearance of Bridgette Thompson.”

            Nelson had omitted the paintings of imitation gang signs on Bonnie Sue’s body. He had simply related that the body revealed a single gunshot wound and had been dumped at the crime scene.

            Eli sipped his coffee, then said. “There is no further news on Abbey?”

            “I must say,” Nelson said, “that is true for things that directly affect Abbey.” He stopped and considered his words carefully. “Let me ask you a question, though, one military man to another.”

            Eli sighed. “Why not?”

            “What happens,” Nelson said, “when a mission become complicated and more complicated, then the Brass adds maneuvers until it becomes more complicated still?”

            It took Eli some few seconds to reorient his concentration. He drank more coffee. “It gets complicated?”

            “And the chances for success in carrying out the mission?”

            Eli raised his head, looked Nelson in the eyes, and said, “The chances for success of the mission decrease in direct proportion to the complexity of the mission and the degree and quality of the planning that goes into it.”

            Nelson didn’t reply straight away. He let the thought germinate. After this pause, he said, “And then?”

            “Good strategy and bad tactics, there is a possibility for success. Good strategy and good tactics, success is imminent. Bad strategy always leads to failure, despite the tactics.” His appearance brightened.

            “So, if we are facing an enemy using an apparent strategy devoid of insight, and amateur tactics”?

            “What are you trying to tell me?”

            “Things associated with both murders,” Nelson said, “lead me to believe that we are dealing with someone or some group that isn’t very bright. “They made mistakes with Abbey. They made more mistakes with Bonnie Sue. And, if Bridgette’s disappearance is involved, they are almost certain to make more mistakes. Remember the famous quote from The Battle of the Bulge?”

            “Nuts?”

            “That was a great one, but not the one I’m thinking of.”

            “What then?” Eli become more animated.

            “They’ve got us surrounded again, the poor bastards.”

            For the first time since Nelson had known him. Eli Stubblefield smiled.

            They talked at length about the facts, as both knew them. Nelson asked Eli if he had any idea how their car might have ended up back in Little Rock if Abbey’s murder wasn’t related to the city in any way. Why would the murderer, or murderers, transport Abbey’s body all the way to Connorville if they had wanted to indicate the murder occurred in Little Rock in the first place.

            “That’s thorny question,” Eli said.

            “Quite,” Nelson said. “But once again, I don’t think we are talking about the largest caliber weapons in the arsenal.”

            Eli laughed this time. “So,” he said. “What are you planning next?”

            “The Sheriff and his men are busy with Bonnie Sue’s crime scene. I don’t want to get in their way right now. I think I’ll drive over to where Bridgette’s mother works and see if I can visit with her for a few minutes.”

            Eli’s head snapped to attention. “Wait one,” he said. He swiveled in his seat and depressed the button on the intercom connecting the shop with the house. “Hey babe,” he said. While he waited, he turned back to Nelson and said. “Could I go with you?”

            A voice answered the intercom. “Yes master?”

            Eli looked at Nelson, who nodded. Eli said, “Gideon and I are going for a ride. Okay?”

            “Not to a bar?” Martha said, sounding as though she were only half joking.

            “No,” Eli said. “To a dope den.” Eli was transforming himself before Nelson’s eyes. The incapacitated, grieving father was surrendering to the confident warrior.

            “Don’t spend too much,” Martha said. “You watch him, Gideon.”

            “Aye aye, madam.”

            Ramona Thompson met them in a coffee shop on the ground floor of the office building where she worked. She was striking, in business attire, and looking extremely professional. She had met Eli before, so they embraced warmly. She shook Nelson’s hand. “Thanks to both of you,” she said. “I’m assembling the most boring brief in the history of American jurisprudence. Your call may have preserved my sanity.” She had ordered a soft drink, and she stopped for a drink. “Now,” she said, “how can I help you gentlemen?”

            Nelson spoke. “I may have indicated this last time we spoke,” Nelson said, “but I’m even more convinced now that Abbey’s death,” he nodded at Eli, “and Bridgette’s disappearance, are related more than anyone imagines.”

            Ramona took a long breath. “They were friends, no doubt about it,” Ramona said. Eli nodded.

            “When Eli suggested coming with me,” Nelson said, “it dawned on me that visiting with you two together might point to some angle I hadn’t considered.” He was drinking coffee. He stared at his cup. “Let me start by saying that some folks in Armistead County think Bridgette may have run away to seek a career in the movies.” Ramona looked at him.

            “She was attractive enough for it,” Eli said, “but no.”

            “No?” Nelson prodded for more. “Are you sure?”

            “Yes,” Eli said. “If you could have seen those girls planning their futures, you would be too.”

            Nelson looked at Ramona. She nodded and said, “Bridgette wasn’t vain about her good looks,” she said. “She considered them a random factor of nature, nothing more. She thought true gifts had to be worked for and earned. That, as you know, was what sent her to the Ransom Center.”

            Nelson tacked. “The partial sheet from the letter she was writing. Can you fill Eli in on that?”

            Ramona said, “I can do better than that. I carry a copy with me and re-read it whenever I’m on break.” She reached into her purse and retrieved a worn, folded sheet. She handed it to Eli and said, “I’m wracking my brain trying to figure out to whom she was sending it.” She explained that it was a discarded draft segment and she had no idea who the addressee might be.

            Eli read the words slowly, nodding his head. He looked up at the other two in turn, but held on to the sheet. “I have doubts,” he said, “that this was intended for Abbey.”

            Nelson said, “How can you be so sure?”

            Eli read the sheet again. He placed it slowly on the table. “First, let me assure you of one thing. Abbey was heterosexual. There’s no way the letter could have been intended for her. That having been said, I have been around these girls a lot. I never spied on them, but I have heard them talking privately when I walked by. They didn’t go in for ‘boy talk’ or teenage girl infatuations. They talked academics and sports. Period. I’ve never been around two more focused people in my life.”

            “What about Abbey and Martin?” Ramona asked.

            Nelson spoke up. “I’ve a reliable source who discounts Martin as a romantic person in Abbey’s life,” he said.

            Eli asked quickly, “What age is your source? Adult or student?”

            “Adult,” Nelson said. “Absolutely.”

            “Perhaps then we can trust the belief. Abbey was never a person to seek advice from someone her own age."

            “Did Bridgette have any other friends that might have asked her advice on romance?”

            “Maybe someone in school, but I can’t think of one with whom she was that close.”

            “If you should think of anyone,” Nelson said to Ramona, we could talk to her and see if she knows any reason why Bridgette might have wanted to leave the Ransom Center early.” He looked at the other two. “In the meantime, I’ll ask Martin next time I see him if Abbey ever mentioned a third girl.”

            Ramona seemed to sag. Then she raised her head and took in a long breath. “I’ll try,” she said, “but I’m so tired. God, I’m so tired.” She began to sob quietly, shielding her face from the other tables. “Eli,” she said, “I feel like I’m ready to join you and accept the fact that my daughter is dead as well, I’m tired of holding out hope when while hope slides away each day. I think it may be time to accept the truth. It’s so hard to think that hate may have killed my daughter, just as it did yours. An accident would have been hard to bear, but hate … hate.”

            Eli leaned toward her, slowly as not to attract attention. He placed a hand on hers. “Ramona,” he said. “Look me.” When she didn’t, he shook patted her hand. “Look at me,” he said, more forcefully this time. She raised her eyes at last. “Now listen,” he said. “Don’t ask me why, but I know that if you keep faith in your heart, your daughter is alive and will find the strength to stay alive. I know it. Can you hear me?”

            She nodded and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “Will you do it for me?” Eli said. “Do it for me, and Bridgette, and Abbey? Will you stay strong for all of us?”

            “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes I will.”

            “Good,” he said. “Now go back to work and don’t cry anymore. Bridgette needs for you to be strong.”

            Nelson had watched the exchange and now said nothing. He waited until Ramona had wiped her eyes again, rose and said to him, “I’ll be waiting for any word from you.” She looked at Eli, smiled, and said, “Thanks. I needed that.” She left the two alone and returned to work.

            Nelson looked at Eli and said, “Now I understand all those promotions you received.”

            “I don’t know what came over me,” Eli said. “I just started talking and couldn’t stop.”

            “Whatever it was,” Nelson said. “don’t lose that feeling.” He stood, leaned over, patted Eli on the shoulder, and said, “Now let’s go find the sorry sons of bitches that have caused all this pain.”

 

Peace

Want to be called a child of the almighty? It’s easy. The Galilean said so on that mount so long ago—if we are to believe in the record of his life. Didn’t he say?

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”  (Matthew 5:9 NIV)

There we have it, from the written words in the document that represents, or should represent, the true belief of so many in the world. It could not be simpler. In fact, it bears repeating.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

Yet.

Yet.

We wouldn’t know it by viewing social media in America this morning. Some posts, written by hands that just laid the Holy Bible aside, urge us to hate and demean others who aren’t like us.

We wouldn’t know it by reading the news headlines in the legitimate news this morning. People who are sure they interpret the scriptures correctly are shooting at those who are shooting back, thinking that they interpret the scriptures correctly.

We wouldn’t know it by listening to politicians, including some at the highest level of American government, who urge us to hate and wreak vengeance upon those who place a different letter beside their political affiliation.

We wouldn’t know it if we read the words of the son of a legendary preacher of the Gospel. Though he calls himself and evangelist, hate and divisiveness drips from his mouth like poison from that of a mad dog.

We wouldn't know if from talk radio or TV. Too many hosts make money by spreading the opposite of peace.

We wouldn't know it from too many TV evangelists who find no profit in peace.

We wouldn’t know it from our relationship with friends and families. We don’t speak to many of them anymore because we differ in our interpretation of righteousness.

Perhaps we should look inward. It is said that to be peacemakers, we first must be at peace with ourselves.

That presents a problem. Whose definition of righteousness will we choose? They vary don’t they? How will we join that holy fold with so many among us who would use violence to prove they know religion best?

What was it again that the Galilean said, again? Oh yes:

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

Peace.

Coincidences

Sundown in Zion

CHAPTER FORTY-Five

            It was after eight o’clock in the evening before Nelson reached his house. Angela Masterson’s car was parked on the street and Charlie’s was in the drive. Nelson pulled in behind it, exited his truck, and walked up the front steps, and into the house. There he found Charlie and Angela sharing a meal. He nodded.

            “Well if it ain’t Deputy Do-Right,” Angela said. “Come join us.”

            “First things first,” Nelson said. He walked past them and took a glass from a cabinet. From another cabinet, he took a bottle of Jack Daniels. He filled the glass with ice. Soon, he was sitting across from the two, drink in hand. “At last,” he said, making a mock toast. “It’s been a long day.”

            “Articulate for the uninformed,” Charlie said. “We were wondering why you were denying us the pleasure of your company.” Angela made a derisive snort. “Well,” Charlie said, “we didn’t spend all our time thinking about you. We, uh, engaged in some creative physical therapy.”

Angela raised her eyes toward the ceiling and shook her head. “Just shoot may ass,” she said. “Ignore him. The healing process is a long and tortuous path, marked by joyous experimentation. Do you catch my drift?” she asked Nelson.

            Before he could answer, Charlie broke in. “Oh,” he said, “speaking of joyous experimentation, your favorite professor called complaining that she couldn’t reach your cell phone.”

            “I turned it off some during the day. Business necessity.”

            “She left a message.”

            Nelson waited.

            “Tied up for the next few nights. She’ll talk to you later.”

            Nelson cocked his head. “Did she say what she would be doing?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “I didn’t hear any heavy breathing, so it may not be due to any competition for you.”

            “That’s fine,” Nelson said. “It’s just that we had made some plans for the rest of the week and she didn’t mention any conflicts.”

            Angela broke in. “I’ve known that woman for a long time,” she said. “Much longer than you. Have you ever sensed anything odd about her?”

            “Odd? In what way?”

            “I just feel the need to alert you,” Angela said, seeming to avoid answering his question.

            “Alert me about what?”

            “Has she ever mentioned her late husband?”

            “First night I met her,” Nelson said, “she told me the whole story.”

            “Did she indicate the marriage had been a happy one?”

            Nelson thought. “A very happy one. And she said she missed him terribly.”

            “An understatement if there ever was one,” Angela said. “Do you think she has gotten over his death?”

            Nelson took a drink and stared upward. “I’m no psychologist,” he said, “but she seems to be coping with the loss as well as a person could. So, it seems to me she may be getting over it.”

            “Well, she’s not,” Angela said. “Trust me, but let’s not discuss this woman any further. We’re more interested in you.”

            Nelson nodded and took a drink. Both Charlie and Angela leaned forward as if expecting great news. After a moment, Angela said, “So are you going to tell us why you had your cell phone turned off most of the day?”

            Nelson finished his drink, stood, and walked to the refrigerator. He filled his glass with more ice and added bourbon. He came back to the table and sat. “Long version or short version?”

            “Long version,” they said in unison.

            He started at the first and told them most of the day’s happenings. He hinted that a plan was afoot but left out some sensitive facts. By the time he finished, he was on his third drink. He ended the narrative with, “If being a deputy involves telling a mother her daughter has been murdered, I don’t think I want to make it a career.”

            “You’re not buying this gang-related crap, are you?” Angela asked.

            “Oh hell no,” Nelson said. “But we think it may give the real gang a false sense of security. Let them think they have us chasing false leads.”

            “Did the symbols they painted on that poor girl’s body tell you anything?”

            Nelson thought. “They told us that these guys are not very bright. At least they aren’t professionals. At least they aren’t professionals in the art of murder. They did think to take the Stubblefield’s car that Abbey was driving back to Little Rock. That leaves some questions unanswered. Everything else has been half-assed, particularly the gang signs. Agent Benson told us that his folks had never seen such an amateurish effort. In fact, he told Sheriff Love it was ‘pathetic,’ to use his words.”

            Angela had stiffened slightly at the mention of Agent Benson’s name. “You know Agent Benson, do you?”

            “Only by reputation,” Nelson said. “Why?”

            “Oh,” Angela said, “I’ve just met him now that I’m doing some consulting work for the office here.”

            Nelson eyed her with caution. He sat his drink on the table, leaned back, and looked her in the eyes. “Speaking of consulting work,” he said, “is there a possibility that you might do a little favor for me?”

            It was Angela’s turn for caution. “What kind of favor?”

            Nelson closed his eyes, grimaced in thought, and said, “Can I trust you?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “There’s a persistent rumor out there that she has been known to fake an orgasm if the mood suits her.” They all laughed.

            “Only for the purpose of rehabilitation,” Angela said, winking at Charlie. “Never for undirected deceit, or out of boredom.” She paused. “And I have only divulged secrets during the rare occasions when the bad guys fondled my breasts. But not to worry, I’ve promised him,” she nodded toward Charlie, “that I won’t let that happen again—at least as far as the bad guys are concerned.”

            Nelson nodded his head in a gesture of mock analysis. He then spoke slowly, “We have a target we need some high-res photography on as well as whatever info your magic machines can produce. Most of what we have seen is concealed by tree cover. What we can see looks innocent enough, but we suspect otherwise.” He took a deep breath. “The reason for going along with the gangbanger crap is to keep the real perps from panicking, but we don’t expect the subterfuge to last, so we need to expedite the execution of our mission. How’s that for ‘cop talk?’”

            “That would probably get you a scholarship to the FBI Academy,” Angela said. “What kind of high-level Armistead County crime are you investigating, poaching, hunting without a license?”

            “A bit more serious.”

            “Dog fighting?”

            “There are numerous dots we are trying to connect. This site seems to be exerting a lot of gravitational pull on all of them. And all good scientists know, don’t they, that where there is gravity, there is mass?”

“True,” she said, and pointed at Charlie. “The more weight this one puts back on, the harder it is to get him off his ass.” She patted Charlie’s arm, smiled at him, and turned back to Nelson. “There’s also a scientific adage that where there is stink there is …, oh never mind. So what mysterious site do you want the dope on?”

            “That’s a good term to use for it,” Nelson said. “It’s a well-protected site near Armistead, supposedly a hunting club, but far from it we suspect. He described the location.”

            Angela’s face grew white. Her eyes bore into Nelson’s like sharp black stakes. She shook her head slightly. “Jesus,” she said. “Jesus H. Christ.”

            Nelson stared at her. “What?"

            “Can I trust you?”

            “I certainly hope so.”

            “I mean really trust you?”

            “Ask Charlie.”

            “With your life,” Charlie said to Angela. “I owe mine to him.”

            They had all grown serious. Nelson pushed his glass away. “What’s the problem?”

            “Only the possible loss of my security clearance and a few years in a federal prison.”

            “I’m confused,” Nelson said.

            “What is said here stays here?” Angela said.

            “Absolutely.”

            Angela looked at the ceiling and back at Nelson. She mimicked making the sign of the cross, then said in a forced bass voice, “Amen.”

            Silence settled over the room like an unclouded darkness covering a sunset. Finally, Angela spoke. “Christ almighty, Deputy Do-Right … I think you’re talking about the same place the FBI has me contracted for.”